Escapade
by Chtristyn
Summary: That's what you sign up for, when you run off with Mello. Horror, injuries, illicit activities, and a metric tonne of chocolate. [Oneshot]


**Warning:** Language

**Notes:** This does not follow the actual Death Note timeline, as Matt wasn't contacted by Mello until 16 days after the explosion. But hey, shippers gonna ship. [This isn't quite a shipping fic, but.]

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Death Note.

**A/N:** _Just a quick little one-shot to get me outta my funk. It's been sitting on my computer, so I decided to clean it up and throw it online. A bit drabble-y. Prolly won't continue it._

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><p><strong>Escapade<strong>

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><p><strong>Inept<strong>

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><p>He swallows thickly, the taste of ash stuck to his tongue, and watches as his friend clenches the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. He shouldn't even be standing. The most he'd let him do was pour some cold water on his face, and then they were speeding off.<p>

"Want me to drive?" he offers. He shouldn't ask, he knows. It's worse to ask than not, but.

Mello doesn't reply; Matt slouches further into his seat, hand twitching toward his PSP. His cigarettes. Any distraction. Instead, he just continues crushing the empty water bottle in his hand, focusing on the crackling sound of thin plastic.

_What a fucking disaster._

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><p>They stop at a motel off the interstate, and pay in cash. The <em>concierge<em> is either very professional or extremely underpaid, and does not bat an eyelash at the char on Mello's face, nor the reeking smell of burnt flesh. Matt notes that her voice and eyes are dull, and that Mello seems bright and... burning. He is very obviously not dead. It's sad that Matt needs to remind himself of this. _Not dead not dead not dead._

He does keep a hand on Mello's shoulder as they walk down the hall; he's surprised he doesn't get hit, or worse, questioned.

As soon as they get their shit in the room, Matt has to leave. He doesn't want to yet; he's still twitching and frightened and worried, but Mello is upset and it's hard to say no. So he goes; they're stopped at a Motorway Service Station, so it isn't far. A five minute walk to the nearest drug store. He buys chocolate bars, cigarettes, a thermometer, antiseptics, burn ointment, a lot of gauze. And then next door to a liquor shop, to get beer. Fuck, he loves American MSAs. The errand nearly calms him down, and almost makes him feel useful.

It's going to be a long night. 

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><p>"You bitch, watch what you're doing with that!"<p>

Matt rolls his eyes, but inwardly is grateful that his friend is at least admitting to pain. At least now he has an excuse to find some painkillers. Maybe some better burn ointment, too. They still have connections; should be able to _at least_ get some silverdine without prescription. (They have a handful of identities at the moment, and Matt could make more in a few minutes- but it'd be stupid to go to a hospital. He may as well stab Mello in the throat.)

"Here," he shoves a still-wrapped chocolate bar in his friend's mouth, and resumes pouring the antibacterial wash. Mello clamps down his teeth in pain, glaring daggers.

Matt is fucking terrified of the burn getting infected, and it's almost definitely going to.

That's what you sign up for, when you run off with Mello. Horror, injuries, illicit activities, and a metric fuck-tonne of chocolate. 

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><p>He's finally got some decent supplies, and Mello's finally passed out without being in danger of dying. The first two days, Matt hovered. No, he didn't just fucking hover, he <em>attached.<em>

That first night, after he got back from shopping, he found Mello sitting in front of a laptop. It took some argueing before he would agree to some basic care, but eventually, he let him.

After Matt cleaned him and cleared off the necrosis _(his stomach turns a little, just thinking of it)_ he spent six hours watching him sleep. Rather, watching to make sure he was still breathing. Scrutinising his face for traces of discomfort. All the while, the half-remembered first aide classes Roger taught ran through his mind; 30 compressions, two breaths. Shit, what if they needed a defibrillator? What would he do if Mello's heart stops? What if it was Kira?

Every thought spiraled. Fuck, he was tired. He couldn't even bring himself to leave the room to use the toilet. It felt like if he looked away from Mello for a _second_, he'd die.

Mello would laugh if he knew. After all, doesn't Matt spend every goddamn second stuck to a video game? Has he ever looked at anything other than a screen for longer than ten seconds? That _he_ knew of, anyway.

But fuck knows it's true enough. Back at Wammy's, he was barely even a friend to Mello. They spent all their time together, but it was mostly just mutually ignoring eachother, wrapped in their own obsessions. And then there he was, watching the guy _sleep_ for hours on end more intently than he's ever paid attention to anything.

It was fucking hilarious. Really.

When Mello woke up, he asked for chocolate. And hot chocolate. And beer. Matt provided. But not until he tormented his friend with more clean bandages. 

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><p>It would have been difficult to say which one was more miserable. <p>

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><p>Nearly a week later, after the loss of hair, nails, skin, and blood (on Matt's part), Mello was finally starting to look better. Miraculously, there was no infection. Matt cried. He really seriously fucking cried when he realised it wouldn't get infected. He locked himself in the dingy bathroom, sat in the shower stall, and cried into his knees like a child.<p>

After, he bought more chocolate, smokes, and beer, with a bit more zest. When he came back to the motel room, Mello was in front of two computer monitors, typing furiously.

Figures. Oh well. Matt preferred things this way. 

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><p>The next day, Mello tells him he'll be leaving that evening to get in contact with Halle Lidner, and plans on staying in her flat to collect information. If Matt is still willing to work with him, he'll have to follow him to Manhattan.<p>

Matt does not punch him. But he does look up from his DS long enough to glower. 

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><p><strong>AN:** _If you have any burn that seems worse than 1__st__ degree, and / or on a sensitive area (e.g., face, hands), please go to the hospital._

_Though US Interstate's don't allow privatisation of Service Stations / Service Areas, they're east of the Rockies; the turnpikes were made before the Interstate Highway System. {The first base was on the west coast, so I set the second base on the east coast so they'd be able to travel north in a shorter amount of time.} [I put way too much thought into this for a drabble.]_


End file.
